


if for to stretch

by Byacolate



Series: the clock knows the hour [3]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Greek Mythology, Feeding, Greek Mythology - Freeform, Hand Feeding, M/M, Marshmallow Adaar, That Hades and Persephone AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-13
Updated: 2015-03-13
Packaged: 2018-03-17 16:22:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3536066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Byacolate/pseuds/Byacolate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It has been said that Dionysus’ vineyards are incomparable, but Dorian is not so easily impressed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	if for to stretch

**Author's Note:**

> This would not exist without [robbicide's](http://robbicide.tumblr.com/) merciless ability to inspire with their masterpieces. Flawless. Come stare at the picture in solitary glory [HERE](http://robbicide.tumblr.com/post/113513224337/here-is-the-third-instalment-of-me-and-byacolates/).

 

It has been said that Dionysus’ vineyards are incomparable, but Dorian is not so easily impressed. He has walked upon the vineyard’s soil, tucked the sun-warmed fruit between his teeth, drunk from cups overflowing, and they were all divine. But to observe the bounty of Dionysus’ pride in the midst of all the drunken court at high, sticky summerseve is not perfection as he has come to know it.

 

When he tries to replicate the thick vines, heavy laden with fruit so deep beneath the earth with the king’s eyes upon him, the grapes are always too full and sweet. They burst on his tongue, cool without the sun and sprung from the stone, and a mindful thumb is ever keen to clean a drip of juice from the corner of his mouth.

 

He spends his winters in soft and simple decadence, the likes of which he has known before a thousand times, but not quite so well as this. There have always been men - hard bodies and hands to touch, pushing fingers past his lips in anticipation of sweat and fervor. There have always been honeyed tongues and little gestures, passing food from hand to mouth in familial affection or subtle suggestion.

 

But he finds something more in the cavernous chambers of the Underworld, hidden away in the king’s apartments from all the restless souls and their keepers. Adaar works tirelessly and with little thanks, and would doubtlessly carry on without pause if Dorian did not demand his attention in the evenings. Even there he is always tending, though Dorian likes to think he gives ample gratitude in return.

 

Or so he hopes. He’s in the middle of a thought, how to best return the favor of unfettered pleasure as it bubbles away his chest when Adaar lifts a sweet stone-grown grape to his lips. The chest at Dorian’s back rises and falls with every slow breath, drawing Dorian further into sleepy contentment. He accepts the ripe, round fruit, skimming his teeth over the tips of Adaar’s stained purple fingers.

 

Arousal thrums low in his belly, as unhurried and lazy as the rest of him as the fingertips of Adaar’s dry hand brush feather-light over his bare arms, his chest, his throat. He spreads his legs a little further between Adaar’s as if the king could forget how naked his consort is between his powerful thighs, open and wanting.

 

But Adaar is anything but rushed. He cups Dorian’s jaw, and when Dorian leans back to accept another grape from his hand, Adaar kisses the flesh behind his ear. The pulse in Dorian’s throat quickens when Adaar’s hand drifts lower, curled around his neck to feel the roll and click of his swallow. He must feel the chaotic heartbeat fluttering under his palm, Dorian's blood singing just for his nearness.

 

He takes another bite when he is bid, and another, until he teeters on the knife‘s edge of too-full. And then, before Adaar can retrieve another from the bunch, Dorian catches his wrist - without question, Adaar allows him to guide his fingers back. Dorian makes his approval known by pulling two dark digits past his lips. He can taste the bitter leaves from the vine, the salt of sweat, and beneath it all, skin.

 

Under the skin there is a thrum of desire. Dorian has felt it in the earth, trembling for the arrival of spring, just as he feels it under the pads of Adaar‘s fingers. Dorian sucks them down to the knuckle and draws back slowly, sliding his tongue between the crevice of those two fingers.

 

Adaar‘s breath stutters hotly over the shell of Dorian‘s ear when he grants the tips of his fingers with a nip of teeth.

 

“Sorry,” he says once his mouth is free, flicking his tongue over the sticky sweet pad of Adaar‘s thumb, “am I distracting you from your worshipful duties?”

 

“I wouldn‘t call them duties.” Adaar slides his thumb over Dorian‘s bottom lip.

 

“No, you wouldn‘t,” Dorian agrees fondly. He grants the palm of Adaar‘s hand with a kiss. Adaar returns it to the side of his neck.

 

The heat from the hearth and the man at his back warms Dorian through, though it is the wide hand settled low on his belly that has Dorian‘s cock bobbing hot and full between his legs. He‘s been fostering his arousal for what feels like an eternity, and still Adaar pays it little mind, pressing open-mouthed kisses to Dorian‘s neck as his hands wander every which way but where Dorian aches the most.

 

“I won‘t beg,” he insists, and spreads his thighs wider despite himself. It looks an awful lot like begging, even to his own eyes.

 

“I wouldn‘t expect you to.” Teeth sink into the curve of his neck where it slopes into his shoulder and Dorian‘s could weep with how badly he aches.

 

“However,” he says, somewhat breathlessly, “I reserve the right to make demands.”

 

Adaar asks quietly, and not without a note of laughter, “Are you making them now?”

 

But Dorian has no need for demands after all. Adaar reaches between his thighs, and lilac blossoms sprout unbidden from between Dorian’s fingers where they grip the arm of the lounge.  They are crushed within their vice not a moment later.

 

Adaar's big hand squeezes Dorian at the base and slides slowly up, dragging a quiet little groan from low in Dorian’s chest. His thumb circles the tip, wet and over-sensitive beneath Adaar’s touch.

 

He performs the task laid before him as he does everything for Dorian: with reverence and unparallelled focus.

 

It has been said that Dionysus’ vineyards are incomparable, and his hospitality is all but legendary, but Dorian has never before known the same sweetness - the same slow and languid fullness that he feels in the quiet lounge of his king's quarters. Dorian has never known kisses to toss his heart about like a seastorm, or the sun-hot weight of a palm to his most intimate places. He has never known the peace that overcomes him even as he grips at Adaar's knees, straining his hips in search of release.

 

He finally finds it with a little shout into the quiet of their apartments, perhaps an eon after they have first begun. It certainly feels that way to Dorian. But the destination is so much sweeter for the length of the journey - in theory. In practice, the teasing is nothing short of torture.

 

“You,” he pants, sprawling boneless over Adaar’s body, “are a marvel.”

 

Adaar kisses the shell of his ear and cups his throat, cradling his hummingbird pulse with all the delicacy he handles Dorian‘s spring blooms. “And what does that make you?” comes his voice, as sweet and dark as the fruit born of Dorian’s underworld vineyard.

 

Dorian is entirely content to ignore the mess on his stomach in favor of turning to return the favor.

 

“The marvel’s better half. Naturally.”

 

“Naturally,” Adaar agrees. And he kisses like it’s the truth.

**Author's Note:**

> Inquire about fic requests [here!](http://wardencommando.tumblr.com/ask)  
> Title from “Up in the Rafters” by Lady Lamb the Beekeeper: _And oh to know the nape of your neck / It would be the length of my whole self / To swoon if for to stretch beneath a fleshy ground / Peacefully_
> 
> If you are so inclined, feel free to follow [my Tumblr](http://wardencommando.tumblr.com/).


End file.
